


You are altogether beautiful, my darling; there is no flaw in you

by honeybeelullaby



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biblical Scripture References (Abrahamic Religions), Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Fishnets, Gay Sex, Lingerie, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Sensuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 05:34:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30084273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybeelullaby/pseuds/honeybeelullaby
Summary: James has never looked more exquisitely beautiful, Francis thinks.After quite a stressful term of teaching, on the first evening of his Easter break, he finally feels relaxed enough to enjoy the offering of such beauty and such love.
Relationships: Francis Crozier/James Fitzjames
Comments: 8
Kudos: 35
Collections: The Terror Bingo





	You are altogether beautiful, my darling; there is no flaw in you

**Author's Note:**

> Modern AU Fitzier, written for my Bingo prompts 'An offering', 'Body Worship', 'Lingerie' and 'Like some kind of spell'

The evenings are getting longer, the breeze starts to smell like wet earth and new life, the trees seem to tremble with the returning strength of spring, and Francis Crozier is finally on holidays. 

God knows it's been rough, possibly one of the most stressful terms he's ever taught, but all's well that ends well. He can't wait to be back home, back to his books and his maps, back to his model ships, back to his dog and his cat, back to James.

Back to James, to spend the twenty four hours of the day with him. More than a week of precious days and nights to be with him; the man of his dreams, his husband, his friend, his lover, his anchor, the only person in the world he can't possibly get enough of. 

He automatically smiles, thinking of James. He's never been in love like this before. He's never wanted anyone else like this before. And he's never been loved and wanted like this before. But of course, nobody in his past has been like James. Nobody. He still can't believe how he got so lucky. 

When he arrives home, Neptune and Fagin come to greet him. Neptune gets gentle scratches on top of his big black shaggy head and Fagin meows softly after rubbing her whiskers on his ankles. 

James is in the shower. Francis can hear him singing some catchy pop tune that obviously wasn't written for a voice like his, so deep and masculine, slightly raspy. The smile on Francis's face widens. 

The bathroom door finally opens, there's a big cloud of fog, carrying the spicy and warm perfume from the posh toiletries that James uses, and the singing stops. Finally, James appears, a vision of elegance and beauty, wearing a soft cream terry bathrobe, his hair wrapped up in a matching towel. His handsome face is flushed pink with the warmth of the shower. When he sees Francis, his dark hazel eyes widen, his lips part, and then he smiles a smile warm like the tropical sun. The corners of his eyes fill with sweet wrinkles and the burrows on his cheeks deepen. Oh, how much Francis loves that smile, those uneven, strong teeth that only make the charm of that expression even more irresistible. 

'At last, Francis! Welcome home, my love!,' James says, practically jumping into his arms.

Francis has no chance to reply, because James kisses him fiercely, bringing him close to his warm body, his tongue inside his mouth, his perfume almost drowning him. It's impossibly delightful. They kiss and kiss, Francis's hands on James's narrow hips, James's big elegant hands roaming on his neck, his shoulders, his arms, his back.

When Francis finally breaks the kiss, he whispers, 'Well, you certainly know how to welcome a man home. If you react like this when I'm back from uni, how would you welcome me if I ever went back to Antarctica and spent several months there?'

James looks at him through his lowered lashes, coquettish. 

'I don't have to think about that possibility, dear Francis. If you ever go back there, I'm coming with you. I'll make you coffee just how you like it and put lanolin on your lips, and coddle you, and possibly tame a few penguins.'

James winks and laughs, and Francis laughs too, happy, and pulls him against his chest, kissing him again. 

James pulls away gently, smiling mischievously. 

'Easy, tiger,' he says. 

Francis arches his brow, quizzically. James gently pushes him towards the bathroom, and Francis sighs.

'Go shower, you sexy thing, while I put on some clothes,' James says.

'Are you going to get dressed now?,' Francis asks, more than a bit disappointed. 'Why don't you come back to the shower with me?

James bites his lip and shakes his head gently.

'I'm going to put on a very special outfit, you grumpy Irishman. And if you are here to watch me while I do it, it won't be a surprise.'

He practically purrs, and Francis feels a delightful shiver down his spine, and heat begins to pool like lava inside his belly. He knows his James, he knows how much he loves to put on a show for him, dressing up for him, embodying his wildest dreams, anticipating his deepest fantasies – giving himself to him in ways that he didn't even know that he desired before meeting such a marvellous, inventive, and daring creature. 

He knows that the sooner he goes to shower, leaving James to put on whatever it is he has prepared for him, the better. So, after giving him a quick peck on his patrician nose, he goes inside the bathroom, undresses quickly, and washes himself methodically under the shower.

When he goes back to their bedroom, barefoot, his greying strawberry blond hair still damp, a towel wrapped around his hips, Francis can't believe his eyes.

James is sprawled out on their bed, elegant like a great hunting cat in repose. His long dark hair shines in the rosy light of the bedroom, cascading in waves on both sides of his proud and handsome face. His half lowered eyelids glimmer with some kind of golden eyeshadow. The tip of his pink tongue peeks between his moist lips. 

The upper half of his body is naked, nothing on his torso save the small anchor pendant on a gold chain that Francis gave him when they became a couple, resting on his sternum, but his hips, buttocks and groin are covered by the most exquisite black lace briefs, and he is wearing black fishnet thigh high stockings that go from the tip of his long elegant feet to half of his lean muscular tights, accentuating every plane and curve of his extremely long legs. 

He's breathing slowly but deeply. His brown nipples are erect. His strong white chest raises and lowers with every breath he takes. He's visibly hard under his delicate lingerie. He smells strongly of Tom Ford's Black Orchid. 

Francis notices everything, and he swallows.

James looks at him in the eye, and Francis thinks he's the most magnificent, the most exquisite thing he's ever seen. The green Moher cliffs or the great icebergs of Antarctica have nothing on him.

'Hello, sailor,' says James, with a playful sing-song. 

Francis growls.

'Jaysus, have mercy on me.'

'Like what you see, Mr Crozier?,' says James, his eyes fixed on his husband's broad, freckled chest.

As an answer, Francis takes off the towel around his hips and climbs naked in bed.

'Come here, my stallion,' James says as Francis lies on top of him, and his long arms and legs wrap around the strong body of his lover. He can feel Francis's erection on top of his lace covered hip, thick, hot and impatient.

Between kisses, his hands trying to touch everything of James at once, Francis tells him, 'I love you, I love you, I love you,' like a litany.

It's not the first time James has done this for him; on the contrary, his husband has always indulged all his fancies, but now, he feels, is different. Maybe it's because he's been so tired for the last days, maybe it's because he's been so focused on his work, barely indulging in anything pleasant, but this time, with James's body in his arms, his James, Francis feels he's opened a door to a new, ecstatic dimension. Like a kind of spell, he feels transformed, complete.

This must be what the saints feel, Francis thinks, a pure ecstasy of the soul and the body, in the presence of the Beloved. He wants to be consumed and to consume, to adore and to be adored, to ravish and to be ravished. If this is a sacrilege, so be it.

As James's tongue explores his mouth, Francis remembers some words of the Bible he has never really understood until now. 'Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth – for your love is more delightful than wine.'

He caresses James's delightfully soft skin, covering him with kisses. James arches his body, melts into his touch. When Francis takes his knickers off, a deep, almost animal moan escapes from his throat. His long, throbbing erection springs free. 

'Touch me, Francis, kiss me, bite me,' he whispers, his voice sounding even deeper than usual. 'I'm yours, love, I've always been yours. Do whatever you want to me, as long as you don't stop loving me.'

Francis doesn't stop, can't stop, won't stop. 

'I adore you, James, you know that I adore you. I love your warm, brave heart. I love your clever mind. I love your voice. I love your body, from your dark eyelashes to your delicious, puckered, dusty pink arsehole.' 

James sighs. Francis keeps kissing him, licking and nibbling his neck and shoulders, whispering against his skin, while James moans and tells him how strong is his man, how beyond comparison, how much he loves every freckle and mole of his skin, how much he wants his tongue, his fingers, his cock inside.

After a particularly long and deep kiss, James suddenly bites Francis's earlobe, and, taking him by surprise, he flips them over, straddling Francis's lap, grinding their erections together. Francis's hands touch the upper part of James's fishnet stockings, and he says, 'Those stay.' 

James giggles and winks coquettishly.

'Do you like them?,' he says. 

Francis nods. 'I've never seen anybody looking as hot as you do wearing a pair of stockings, you minx,' he whispers, his breath growing faster as James takes his hands and presses them against his own chest. Francis pinches and caresses his nipples, hard and flushed dark like tiny buds, and James begins grinding against him. 

'Fucking hell, James, that feels so good...' (What he doesn't say is, 'If I'm going to die now, what a way to go. I belong to my love, and his desire is for me.')

'And this is going to feel even better, my love,' says James, lowering himself until he's kneeling between Francis's thighs, taking his husband's cock inside the heat of his mouth. He hollows his cheeks, taking him deeply, moaning around the hard silky length. Francis whimpers, watching him with fascinated eyes, like a schoolboy drawn to the sight of a beautiful bird. 

Stopping briefly his ministrations on Francis's cock, he asks him, 'Does it feel good, my love?' Francis nods, letting out a shaky breath. 

James goes back to focus his whole attention to Francis's prick, one hand wrapped around its base, the other petting his thighs and his velvety balls. He tongues the underside of Francis's cock, licks with furious tenderness the leaking head. Francis tangles his fingers in his hair, trying not to pull, and, half delirious with pleasure, he remembers, 'How beautiful you are and how pleasant, my love, with such delights!'

'Stop, please, stop now, darling, or I won't last,' he tells James. James obeys. He looks up to Francis with dark dilated pupils, and he asks him, his voice a bit hoarse, 'Will you fuck me, Francis? Do whatever you want to me. How do you want me, Francis? How do you want me?'

Francis makes him lie down on his back. He grabs a pillow and puts it under James's arse, spreading his thighs in one strong maneuvre. 

'That's how I want you, my dear boy. Open, and mine. Mine, as I am yours. My sweet, filthy, insatiable minx. My whole heart, my king and my plaything. God, I love your little arse,' he says, and after uttering the last syllable he begins lapping at James's soft arsehole, putting one of his longs legs over his shoulder, grabbing a handful of his peachy buttock. 

He licks and laps with abandon, savouring the taste, and James's cock begins to leak copiously. He's making deep animal noises, babbling words of encouragement and a couple of profanities in Portuguese. 

Both are incredibly hard, and now and then James tugs at his cock seeking some relief, but Francis won't have any of it. Taking out his tongue from the furled muscles of James's entrance, his lips and chin glistening with saliva, he speaks to stop James from touching himself, and he tells him, 'You won't come until I fuck you, gorgeous. Then and only then you will be alowed to come.'

'Well then, fuck me now, you brute, before I self-combust,' James begs him, his eyes foggy with lust, his hair a wild dark mess against the bedsheets. 

Francis can't deny James anything. (He would give him his blood if he asked him. He would give him his eyes.)

Taking the bottle of lubricant oil from the night table, Francis coats the fingers of his right hand and starts preparing James's for penetration. He never gets tired of this, of the sounds James makes, of how his body reacts, welcoming the gentle and not so gentle press of his fingers, of how he bites the meat of his hand as Francis's fingers find his sweet spot, his most secret place, his tiny place of delight.

After coating his achingly hard cock with oil, he finally leans forward. He kisses James with utmost tenderness, swallowing his tongue. He braces his hands either side of James's head, and enters him in a swift, ondulant movement. James crosses his ankles on the small of Francis's back, and Francis begins moving slowly.

(If this is sacrilege, so be it. There's nothing more sacred than this. 'The curves of your thighs are like jewellery, the handiwork of a master.')

'My good boy,' he tells James, and James hisses, 'Yes, Francis, yes. Your good boy, yours alone.'

Francis sets a steady pace, unrelenting, and James claws at his back and his shoulders, screaming with pleasure. Each thrust finds his prostate with unfailing accuracy, and Francis kisses him, deeply, hungrily, adoringly.

Francis buries his face between James's neck and collarbone, and he feels like a ship at sea, rocking, always rocking with every wave, and James is clenching with delightful cruelty around his cock, and he screams in triumph and pleasure, coming in thick ropes between their bodies, his cock untouched. 

And Francis is lost, completely lost in this ecstatic dimension, and he half whispers, like a prayer, 'You are altogether beautiful, my darling; there is no flaw in you,' and then he comes apart, burying himself in his lover as deep as he can, and he transcends his own self, and he drowns in a void of infinite bliss.

When he returns to himself, Francis slides out of James and gives him lots of sweet little kisses everywhere, still half out of breath, and James caresses his hair and strokes his back, encouraging him not to move, enjoying the whole weight of Francis on top of him. 

'I'm going to fall asleep like this, James,' he mumbles.

James feigns anger, and playfully slaps his cheek. 

'Don't you dare, Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier.'

Francis chuckles, and James squeezes his buttocks. Both sigh, sated and happy. They can hear Neptune's joyful barks from the other side of the flat. They move slowly, sweaty and a bit sticky, not bothering with cleaning themselves. James hugs him from the back and tenderly kisses Francis's nape.

Francis falls asleep, and when he wakes up, James is still wearing his black fishnet stockings.

**Author's Note:**

> • This is my first published fic ever! Yay me! Please leave kudos and comments!
> 
> • This is unbetaed, so any potential mistakes are all mine.
> 
> • The title comes from the Song of Songs (AKA Song of Solomon) and so do the verses that Francis remembers while making love to James.


End file.
